has it been years or days or has it been a breath?
by Last Girl Standing
Summary: That's one thing we're good at, she muses, and she's surprised she's such a cynic. /or, luna and survivor's guilt. luna centric, directly post battle of hogwarts. quite dark. proseish. verse by Hamsters on SoundCloud.


_What a chorus line of corpses we've collected _  
_At least we're good at one thing I suppose _  
_It's nice to feel excited once again _  
_Let's throw the loveliest of funerals_

_I used to feel I stood for something, then I just felt fine _  
_I've fallen prey to feeling some emotions that weren't mine_

_I was never really gone at all, but you believed I was _  
_So, I'm sorry that I left but I've returned to help our cause_

_In our story I do not narrate, I just fill the margins _  
_With bubbles, circles shapes where we may place our fallen friends_

_Has it been years or days or has it been a breath?_

* * *

She doesn't know what to feel anymore.

The battle is over, the war is won, but she feels empty and hollow. There's the faint feeling of floating, dancing on air because she's alive but the blood drenching her feet {she can't see it but she can feel its grip, its holding her down to earth so she can't float away from the hell her world has become} so she's on the ground but she's trying to fly.

Adrenaline has worn off and the thick feeling of fear has set in like a heavy cloud, but she doesn't quite know _what _she's afraid of. She supposes it's the lingering feeling of Malfoy Manor that may never disappear.

Or perhaps she's feeling the emotions of the surrounding - the conflict of everlasting fear they'd all gotten used to, the slowly disappearing adrenaline of the fight, the excitement of the Light, the sadness of the mourners.

{it feels nice to have the bubbling, floating dance of overwhelming happiness again, but the blood holding you down isn't quite helping}

Arms hug you tightly and your heart races - _nonono please don't bring me back! I can't go back! _- but you're spun around and - oh thank Merlin, it's just Neville.

"_I thought you were dead,_" he whispers breathlessly into her hair, and she hugs him back, slim arms wrapping around his neck.

_"I'm sorry,"_ you whisper back and you are. "_But I came back to help." and for you. _It's not an excuse, it's not an explanation, she isn't sure what it is but it needed to be said. He lets go of you - oh no he's bleeding - and his heavy, calloused hands rest on her shoulders.

"Can we talk later?" he asks.

"Of course." she murmurs back. He disappears into the crowd of mourners, of celebrators, of killers.

She's still not sure how long it has been, since the battle, since Malfoy Manor, since home, but it seems like moments or days or maybe it has been years. Time seems to blur together and she can't tell one minute from the next.

People - mourners, killers, sinners and celebrators - seem to disappear, until no one is left but the corpses and herself.

They're lined up side to side, slaughtered in so many ways it's innumerable. _That's one thing we're good at, _she muses, and she's surprised she's such a _cynic._

_{well, not surprised, per se... they all changed quite a lot}_

She almost doesn't want to leave the hall of bloodied bodies because they're real, they are not celebrating. Their faces are etched into a permanent sleep and for a moment she wants to be them.

{she's so, so tired of war and memories}

She thinks about what she knows and what she's heard - the broken scraps of narration that she hasn't thought- and fills in details she's not sure are true. She's not the storyteller here, she's only taking guesses and talking to corpses in a blood stained hall.

She sits down next to the body of Fred Weasley, staring at the dark red staining the orange and freckled white. "Hello, Fred." she whispers softly, stroking the orange hair. She sounds like her old self. She isn't sure if this is good or bad.

You'd think he was sleeping, face forever in a laugh. If his chest hadn't been still, you'd think he was just taking a quick nap.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, but she's not sure what she's sorry for. She's not sure of a lot lately. {is anyone?}

He's pale and cold.

She folds her hands in her lap and stares for a moment. She doesn't think - just stares at a body with a ghost of a smile on its face.

{he was so young - he was only nineteen}

She can't look anymore, so she looks across the hall.

Bad idea.

Faces catch her eyes - Remus, Tonks, Colin, Lavender. She thinks she sees Marietta in the wreckage and a few other Ravenclaws and even more of her friends.

_{oh god no, please no}_

She stares down at her lap because there's nowhere else to look.

In that moment, as memories and voices and faces of the dead {the ones Voldemort killed, her friends god damn it!}, Luna feels, for the first time in her life, true and burning _rage._

_{hekilledthem}_

_{HE KILLED THEM!}_

Her lips form something like a scream of anger she had never felt before, but the sound wont come out and as quickly as it appears, rage turns into sadness and tears leak out of her eyes.

_{he.. killed.. them}_

_{they're dead}_

_{they're gone}_

_{and you're still here!}_

So she cries.

She doesn't know who she's crying for. Maybe it's everyone. Maybe she's crying for the dead, for the living. Maybe she's crying for all those who lost their innocence and maybe she's crying for all those who'll grow up missing parents. Maybe she's crying for the Wizarding World.

{maybe she's being selfish for once and crying for herself}

She doesn't know how long it has been since she started crying. Maybe it has been moments. Maybe it has been years.

She doesn't really care, anymore. She just needs to cry.


End file.
